


Class Two Drugs (or: reasons to look for trouble)

by allegoricalrose (SilentStars)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Massage, Smut, oxytocin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:32:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3280259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentStars/pseuds/allegoricalrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the best way to a woman's heart is to woo her with oxytocin research.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Class Two Drugs (or: reasons to look for trouble)

"You seem very tense, Rose." 

She laughs and rolls her shoulders, stretching her arms over her head and wiggling her hips to get the kinks out. “Yeah, probably am. Sleeping on the stone floor of a prison two nights in a row isn’t the best thing… Two _different_ prisons in two different planets, mind you.”

"Sorry. Again." He hangs his head in apology but his eyes remain tightly glued to her neck. 

Shrugging, she raises one shoulder and then the other before returning to her magazine. “‘s alright, Doctor. No big deal. At least I wasn’t freezing my arse off again; it was handy that both planets had strict rules enforcing night-time spooning. Weird coincidence, huh?”

He squirms and drops his gaze to the console, the tear on the jump seat, the time rotor’s rhythmic pumping. “Er, yes.” Clearing his throat, he meets her eye again, stepping forward. His hands are clenched into fists but they keep opening and closing, like they’re trying to grip empty air. “I…I can help. With the tenseness, I mean.” 

Rose licks her finger and turns a page. He swallows. “Nah, you’re alright. I’ll take some nurofen later if it gets any worse.”

He’s still standing and staring a moment later when she looks up at him again and she raises an eyebrow. “Are _you_ stiff, Doctor?”

Predictably, he starts spluttering and touching parts of his body in a bizarre self-soothing routine: first the ear tugging, then the neck scratching, and finally the hair ruffling. Repeat. 

"I’m great at massages,” she eventually continues after a few rounds. “Mum took a course and she practiced on me."

There’s a magic word somewhere in there and immediately he composes himself and adjusts his tie. “Of course she did. No, I’m fine. Superior physiology and all that. I don’t get sti—tense muscles.” 

"Oh. That’s good then." She returns to her reading and still he stares. It’s hard to concentrate on the words when he’s awkwardly standing in front of her but she perseveres, mulling over the models and wondering what the Doctor would do if she marched into the console room one morning with a similar translucent top and lacy lingerie.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can pinpoint the exact moment the Doctor looks down at what she’s reading because his face turns deep red. With a smirk, she folds down the page for future reference and closes the magazine. 

"Are you alright? I thought you were going to do some repairs tonight." She gestures toward the untouched console table.

It takes him a moment to snap out of his daze. “Er, yes. No! Because I’ve discovered that my trusty companion is sore and what kind of host would I be to not alleviate that?”

She shrugs and stands up; the magazine slides to the floor and the usually fastidious Doctor doesn’t even notice. “Okay then. You have something in the med bay?”

"And douse you with unnatural chemicals? Never. Well, not for this. This can be sorted with natural remedies.” He tugs his ear again. “I mean, if you like."

"Sure. But really, I’m barely sore, and—"

"Tut tut, Rose. Even a twinge of discomfort discomfits me."

She laughs. “Alright, whatever. So what’s this natural remedy?”

His feet receive a rather intense studying. “Nothing fancy. Just that shoulder-rub you mentioned.”

Not quite believing her luck, she hesitates a millisecond too long before replying and has to jump straight into damage control as he’s already starting to back away and splay his hands in apology.

"Sounds great. Thanks."

He exhales. “Brilliant.” He doesn’t move. He watches her.

Right. First move is down to her. As always. 

She twists around, tucking one leg under herself and resting the other on the grating. Looking back over her shoulder at him, she raises her hair and twists it into a messy bun at the tip of her head before securing it with a hair bauble from around her wrist. 

"Jumper on or off?"

There’s a pause. “Off?” he squeaks.

"Is that a question or an answer?"

Another pause. “Answer?”

She sighs with exaggeration and a grin before unzipping her top, leaving her in a white cotton vest. Fantastic doesn’t even begin to describe the current state of affairs but she has to play it cool unless she wants Lord Skittish to melt into a puddle of his own sweat. Or spontaneously combust. For not the first time in the year or so since she’s been travelling with him, she’s reminded of the power of bare skin to fell the ancient and mighty time-travelling alien. 

The jumper thoroughly vanquished to a dark crevice somewhere, she waits patiently. There’s a clearing of a throat and some knuckle cracking before she feels his fingers on her shoulders. Rather than kneading however, they remain heavy and still. 

"Rose, I…" He censors himself and she hears him don his glasses. 

Lecture time. Great. She closes her eyes as his words begin to wash over her at the same time his hands start moving, concentrating more closely to her own inclinations to moan in rapture than on his ramblings until a few keywords begin to catch her attention. 

"—and breastfeeding. Breast massage also increases its supply, especially digital and oral nipple stimulation. And oxytocin has so many benefits, Rose, it—"

She swivels around so quickly that his hands graze her breastbone for a glorious moment before being snatched away. “What?”

"I’m not saying such drastic measures are required, but you are rather tense and increasing circulating oxytocin levels could alleviate that particular ailment. Might even prevent future episodes if we can reduce anticipatory rigidity and general stress levels.” He blinks and his confidence waivers; she can see his own anxieties flash in his eyes before being locked away again.

"I think I missed the first part of what you were saying. What are these non-drastic measures, again?"

"Greater skin contact. Um, with me. Because I’m the only person here and it can’t be a stranger. Unless you want someone else. Then, um…"

"And what does skin contact entail, exactly?"

The fearful animal expression returns to his eyes and she turns back around and closes her eyes, patting her shoulder to gesture he should continue with the massage. 

After a minute, he speaks again; his voice is raspy and he has to clear his throat. “More massages, for one.”

"That sounds good," she hums contentedly as his magic fingers find a knot she didn’t know existed.

"And laying down would also help. Oxytocin increases in prone or supine positions."

"Of course," she half-purrs and has to clear her own throat too.

"Less clothes? Maximal skin-to-skin is necessary. Ideally, both, er, members of the massaging dyad should be minimally clothed."

This is sounding better and better and the combination of his hands on her back and his words close to her ear are engendering a warm tingling feeling starting in her chest and radiating outward. She wonders if she’s drunk on something or possibly just dreaming; this is all too good to be true.

"Dim lighting too. Oxytocin levels decrease in bright light." If he weren’t still kneading her upper back, she’d suspect he was listing his points on his fingers.

She allows the tiniest moan to escape her lips before nodding emphatically. ”I could agree to those terms.”

His breath hilts and then returns, cool on her neck. “Really? It’s not essential, I just wanted to feel you up—out! I wanted to feel you out. With regards to your feelings. On the matter.”

"I can’t think of any downsides to your proposal. Would this be on a needs-basis, or—"

"Daily," he blurts out before she’s finished talking, a bit too eagerly even for him. "Er, ideally. Like a prescription or a daily vitamin. A prophylactic!" His attempt to scale back the enthusiasm fails spectacularly. 

She presses her cheek into her shoulder and his fingers for a moment and his steady massaging action falters. “Can’t argue with preventative medical advice from my Doctor.”

Her eyes are still closed and he’s still standing behind her and still she sees the light his slow smile unfurls. It’s impossible to miss. “Brilliant.”

"Do you want to start the dose now?"

"Probably for the best."

She nods and turns around. His eyes are closed and there’s a blissful expression on his face until he sees her watching. Then it’s goofy and bashful at the same time, like a little boy meeting Mickey Mouse at Disneyland. 

"So…" She waits for him to indicate where he wants to do this; she’s still not entirely sure she knows what _this_ is, but she’s fully expecting to enjoy it. 

"So…" His eyes are warm and he threads his fingers through hers. Is he flirting? Is that what this is? He’s usually more grandiose and hyperbolic in their frequent bantering/flirting sessions, ridiculous to the point of later denial if pressed, but this is new.

His feelings right now are unambiguous and blaring out as if through a megaphone.

Biting her lip, she grins back and there’s an instant where they connect, an instant where there’s a mutual understanding that changes everything. It’s like a door has unlocked, a curtain has lifted, a thousand other clichés that all simply serve to appellate that new vein pumping in and out of her heart and into his.

And still they play the game. Because the game is infinitely more compelling when there’s a prize to be won.

"We need somewhere to be, um, horizontal, you said? Like…a sofa?"

A rapid shake of his head. “I think a bed would be better. Warmer, more relaxing. Easier to implement dim lighting.”

"Good thinking." His eyes sparkle with mirth. "I have fairy lights strung around my canopy. Would that be suitable?"

"Ideal. Good thinking, Rose Tyler," he over-enunciates. If he were Julie Andrews he’d be clicking his heels together in a leap but instead he cocks his head and clicks his jaw and that grin, that unadulterated grin… 

She starts walking for the corridor, tugging him along behind her. “Is this were we run?” she jokes through a tongue-tipped smile and he returns it in equal measure.

"This is where we walk slowly and deliberately and we make it to our destination unscathed."

No doubt about it: she’s definitely punch-drunk now.

“All the time in the world,” she agrees, swinging his arm as they walk down the long hallway of bedrooms.

“Even better. We’re in the vortex. There is no time.”

He’s giddy, practically prancing along, and she loves it.

A slight twinge of awkwardness threatens to seep back in once their inside her room, but she whacks it with a mallet and pulls him straight into the bed. “Minimal clothing, you said?”

“Oh, yes.” She’s never seen his Time Lord agility put so beautifully into practice as she has when his chest is bare within seconds. Resisting the urge to trail a finger between his hearts and down to his taut abdomen, she takes the long-term strategy and attempts instead to whip off her own top. It gets caught in her earrings and she lets out a noise of frustration.

“Here, let me,” he says softly, gently detangling the straps and removing the brassy hoops. “Just to be on the safe side,” he murmurs as he places them on the bedside table and kneels in front of her again.

His eyes run up and down her exposed skin appraisingly. “This is good but I think we can do better.”

“Should we increase the skin-to-skin surface area?”

“For a start.”

Her mouth muscles are aching from so much smiling and there’s nothing she can or wants to do about it, especially since it’s feeding off his smile. She reaches for her jean button but he stops her with a hand on her wrist. “Let me? I mean, for the sake of every touch counting, of course.”

She shivers and he notices with an almost imperceptible smirk. “Of course.”

The button is deftly conquered but before proceeding with the zipper he darts forward and takes a long lick of her collarbone, his tongue flat and wet.

“Mmm, just as I’d hoped. Your oxytocin levels are on the rise.”

She glances down between them but holds back from commenting on other aspects of physiology also rapidly ascending. “I’ve got a great Doctor.”

“Very attentive,” he confirms to her breasts before lunging forward and latching onto an upper swell while carefully lowering her onto her back. There’s a slurping noise as he noses aside the bra cup and covers her nipple with his mouth, sucking and swirling and doing things she wasn’t even aware were possible before this moment. He’s hard and unhurriedly rocking against her thigh and as he moves to show equal affection to her other breast she dimly wonders if there’s such thing as oxytocin poisoning.

When she moans and arches up against him for precious friction her exposed throat distracts him and he releases her bud with a pop. His lips move to clamp down and bite while his hands take over the apparently all-important task of setting her nerve endings afire via her breasts. He laves his newly formed marks with his tongue while his clever fingers slip under her back to unhook the last barrier between true skin-to-skin on their upper halves.

He’s being thorough and taking his time to worship every inch of her bloody skin and she’s over it.“Doctor,” she whines, writhing against his legs to spur him on but her intermittent moans only divert his attention again, this time to her untouched lips.

His whole body slides up hers and he hovers over her lips, eyes half-lidded but watching her assiduously. It’s unclear whether he’s teasing or asking permission but his shift in position means that his erection is in just the right spot and she lifts her hips at the same time that she lifts her lips, fastening onto that plump lower lip and sucking. There isn’t even a millisecond’s delay in his response, grinding down into her centre and taking control of the kiss and she’s kissing his smile, breathing his laughter, and so much is happening all while not enough is happening. Not enough at all.

When he releases her for air, she takes her chance and rolls them over, immediately going to work on removing his trousers and pants, kicking them off with her foot before rising on her knees to ungracefully tug her jeans off sweaty skin. The Doctor watches with darkening eyes until she’s fully exposed before him and he flips them over again so that he’s resting on his lower arms above her.

His breath is ragged as he gazes down at her. His cock is resting on her belly, heavy and hot, and she traces the sinews of his arms.

“Oxytocin is also released in massive quantities in human female orgasm, Rose, and you should also know that—”

So done with that game.

She wraps her legs around his hips and drags him down. “Shut up and fuck me, Doctor.”

With a sound that sounds suspiciously like a crow of triumph or maybe a groan of relief, he sinks down on top of her and begins to crawl down her body. She squeezes her legs to stop him and with a tangled fist in his hair pulls him back up to her lips. The kiss is hard this time, urgent and demanding, and after an indeterminable amount of time she pulls always to meet his eye.

“Next time,” she pants, “next time, okay? Please, I want you inside. Now.”

He nods wordlessly, his forehead brushing against hers, and shifts his weight to one elbow in order to free up a hand. His fingers ghost along her ribs, down the soft flesh of her belly, across the hollows of her hipbones, and she’s buzzing with need by the time he reaches her folds. She’s acutely aware of how wet she is for him and expects a smug smile once he discovers it too, at least a lascivious look of a hum of approval.

Instead he breaks into the most delighted smile she’s ever seen, effervescent and radiant and utterly pleased. It’s almost enough to temper the ache coursing through her blood, seeing him this happy and unguarded. Almost.

She captures his lips again, softly this time, and whispers in words what he’s just broadcast across his face.

With a final nip at her lips, he raises himself up onto his hands and lowers his head against her forehead so he can watch himself disappear into her folds. The angle’s not quite right and she reaches between them to adjust and then he’s sliding in, slow and steady, inch by inch and— _fuck_ he’s big and it feels so good, stretched and full and _fuck_. _Fuck_.

She gasps these words aloud, head flung to the side, and he exhales in rapt appreciation, returning the sentiment in her own tongue and in his own tongue and with his tongue in her mouth and with sounds she’s never heard before but wants to record onto her minidisc player and play on repeat.

Just as the warmth is beginning to ignite, he pulls out. She whimpers.

“Can we…can you turn over?” There’s a drop of sweat making its way down his forehead at the same trajectory as the one running down her chest.

Hell, yes she can. She scrambles over and gets up onto her knees, gripping the headboard and turning back to see him. “Don’t tell me: better for oxytocin production?”

It takes him longer than usual to process her words and when he does he shakes his head with a sheepish smile, gripping her hips and kneeling behind her. “Oh. No. I, um, just wanted to try this. Is that okay?”

“Yessss,” she half-keens as he enters her again. One hand on a breast and one braced on her hip, he’s slow at first to allow her time to adjust to the new angle. He feels even bigger like this and it’s overwhelming in the best possible way. After a few long strokes she squeezes around him and meets his thrusts, urging him to go faster, harder. With a grunt he begins moving in earnest and everything is so wet and slippery and full and flesh is slapping and slurping and she finds herself beginning to lose her mental footing.

It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes ago that she was thumbing through a magazine laughing about his reaction if he saw a glimpse of her undergarments and now he’s inside her and digging his fingertips into her naked hips and making inarticulate noises into her ear. And if prisons and megalomaniac alien species are the bits in-between, she wants to remain between until her dying breath.

She’s just on the precipice when he pulls out of her again and a mouthful of not-so-flattering swear words is about to erupt when he circumvents her frustration with his mouth over hers and a rather impressive repositioning of their bodies so that she’s under him again. Gliding back inside without pause, he releases her lips.

“Want to see you,” he gasps and resumes pounding into her, his thrusts faltering in rhythm as he too circles his high. “Rose, please, I need you to—”

Moving her legs to around his waist, she locks her ankles and grips the sheets for every ounce of leverage she can muster. The extra simulation and change in angle finally trips the threshold and she comes hard around him, contracting and convulsing and losing herself for a beautiful few seconds.

She’s still drifting down when he follows with a growl, he teeth bared and his nostrils flared. The feeling of him pulsing inside her, cool fluid hitting her inner walls and stretching them even further, causes them to spasm again in aftershock and she has to drop her legs to the mattress in exhaustion. Exhaustion and complete satisfaction, body and soul.

Flushed face and neck, he doesn’t collapse down on her like she expects, instead lowering himself to plant messy kisses and nibbles on her face and neck. His words are still foreign but as time passes and his hearts begin to steady themselves in time with her own heartbeat, more words she understands begin to filter through.

Word.

He’s repeating her name, over and over again and in every language he knows.

At first she attributes the warmth and ebullience rampaging through her body to this piece of information but when it intensifies with time, she begins to suspect alternative origins.

“Doctor,” she rasps and he opens his eyes to look at her with that same expression of joy from earlier. She mouths her love in return and he draws it forth from her lips, stroking and sucking until they feel swollen to twice their usual size. Shifting to his side, he draws her close and tucks her under his chin.

The simmering fire continues to spread; it’s not an urgent feeling, more of a contented heat, like being wrapped in a warm duvet or being just enough tipsy to hit that sweet spot. A completely natural state after amazing sex, she imagines at least, but it’s the intensity of it that seems different. Different-good, but more than the usual post-coital glow: she’s ablaze.

She squirms in his arms a little. “Doctor, I feel…I dunno, like—”

With a smile, he tucks her hair behind her ears. “You probably feel the effects of the extra oxytocin in my seminal fluid. Nothing to worry about, you don’t feel faint or anything, right?” She shakes her head and he releases a breath. “The Time Lords genetically modified that part of the genome to produce an enhanced version of oxytocin that can pass through the blood-brain barrier so that the brain can absorb it. Great for pair-bonding, which many weren’t exactly inclined to do otherwise.”

“It’s…fantastic,” she drawls and is rewarded with a kiss and lazy caresses.

It’s awhile before she notices that he’s still inside her and even longer before the realisation that he’s still rock hard. Squeezing her walls around him, he yelps and bucks against her once.

“Why…?”

“Ah.” He carefully pulls out of her and cleans her up with his t-shirt. “The extra oxytocin in you is excitatory to, um, that part of me. Vicious cycle. It’s not a big deal, I can control it in a couple of minutes. My systems are a little spent at the moment.” He shoots her a cheeky grin and nips at her lips for good measure.

Her eyes widen. “No refractory period?”

“No idea what that is,” he lilts and she gives him no warning before tackling him to his back.

“Oxytocin is my favourite hormone.”

“Glad to hear it. But if you want to be precise about its classification, it’s a neu—”

He doesn’t finish his lecture.

—-

Weeks later she stubs her toe on the base of the console table.

She’s salivating immediately.

Her knight in brown pinstripes is at her side almost instantaneously, running his hands down her legs on their way to check her feet for swelling or broken bones. His face erupts into a grin. “No damage, you’ll just experience some mild residual pain.”

“Can’t have that.” Her voice is throaty and she’s already on her knees.

There may be no such thing as an oxytocin overdose but _fuck_ is it addictive.


End file.
